Returned to Life
by Allyson
Summary: As a shadow stepped closer, John's hand snapped forward, his gun pointed at the heart of the intruder. "John." John's breath caught in his throat at the sound of that voice.


Sherlock – Returned to Life

By Allyson

(A/N – _Sherlock Holmes_ belongs to A.C. Doyle and the BBC, not me)

John awoke startled, unsure at first what had broken his sleep. Slowly realizing that he had once again fallen asleep in his armchair, he was aware of the sun sinking low through the partly closed curtains. John's army senses kicked in as he sensed he wasn't alone. In readiness he slipped a hand down the side cushion of his chair. As a shadow stepped closer, John's hand snapped forward, his gun pointed at the heart of the intruder.

"John."

John's breath caught in his throat at the sound of that voice. The voice he had missed so much, the voice he hadn't heard in such a long time; hadn't _expected_ to hear ever again.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he managed to stutter, as the other man stepped over to a nearby lamp and turned it on.

The artificial light revealed the so-called dead consulting detective standing very much alive in front of John. His cheekbones were a little more prominent and his curly hair appeared a little longer, but he still looked like John remembered, right down to the knowing look in that x-ray gaze as he stared back at the ex-army doctor. For once, Sherlock seemed patient enough to wait for John to recover his wits and react.

Lowering the gun onto the arm of his chair, John gradually got to his feet, his eyes never once leaving Sherlock's face. This wouldn't be the first time he had thought he'd seen his flat mate. Hesitantly, he reached out to take Sherlock's pulse. His eyes widened in hope as he felt the steady beating underneath his finger tips. It was the slight smug smirk on Sherlock's face that caused John to snap.

Sherlock blinked as he found his face introduced to the carpet, his jaw on fire. He gently probed the tender skin as he sat up, deducing he would have quite a magnificent bruise in the morning.

"You're supposed to be dead," John accused him, frowning in confusion.

"Well, as you can obviously see, John," responded Sherlock, with his usual 'don't be an idiot' expression. "The blood runs warm through the veins of this ghost."

John looked at him in amused surprise. "Really, Sherlock? Peter Pan?"

He reached down a hand and helped pull Sherlock back onto his feet. Sherlock ignored the question.

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't dead?" John demanded, hurt colouring his voice. "Didn't you trust me?"

Sherlock's eyes softened and John wasn't sure but he was convinced Sherlock looked both pained and regretful.

"Of course I trust you, John . . . I've been lost without my blogger. Moriarty had men ready to kill you if I didn't jump. I couldn't risk them finding out I was still alive."

John searched the other man's expression as he spoke and shook his head in the silence that followed.

Sherlock fidgeted. "A bit not good?"

John couldn't help the snort of laughter. "Yeah . . . a lot not good." He sighed. "I want to know everything, Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded but before he had the chance to explain, they heard the familiar footsteps of Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs. Sherlock's eyes flashed in uncharacteristic panic before he put a finger to his lips and darted stealthily behind the flat door as it opened. The detective was completely hidden by the door as Mrs Hudson bustled in, beaming ecstatically.

"Oh, John, isn't it wonderful? Have you heard? Sherlock's back and he's alive! Mind you, I'm still angry with him for what he's put us through all this time, it's not decent, but, oh my word, it's wonderful!"

John grinned as everything that had happened since he'd woken up finally sank in and clicked into place.

"Sherlock's home," he agreed, as he hugged Mrs Hudson back.

Dabbing at her eyes, she patted John's cheek. "I expect he's asleep at the moment. He mentioned he'd had a long journey," she said, glancing at the bedroom door. "I'll stop by in the morning; make a welcome home breakfast for you both. But just this once, mind you, after all I'm not your housekeeper."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John replied, hiding a grin at the expression that he imagined was most likely being glared behind the door their landlady stood unwittingly by.

With a last few words, Mrs Hudson left the flat and Sherlock's exasperated face was finally revealed.

"Why didn't you tell her no?" the young man practically whined.

"Kindness doesn't kill, Sherlock," John scolded him lightly.

"No, conceded Sherlock in a low mutter, "but it can smother."

The sulk was so familiar that it felt like Sherlock had never left. John realized he must have been staring at Sherlock for a while when he caught sight of the detective's curious eyes trying to deduce the doctor's thoughts. John couldn't believe how much he'd missed that expression.

"I want you to promise me something, Sherlock," John said, his expression and tone serious.

"Anything," Sherlock murmured, without hesitation.

"The next time I ask you for a miracle, don't leave it so late, eh?"

A small smile flickered over Sherlock's face as his shoulder untensed in relief. John has already forgiven him.

"I promise."

Straightening his shoulder, Sherlock's eyes scanned John. "Your psychosomatic limp has returned, stress induced, really need to lose the cane, John, as even you know it's weakening your leg. Bags under your eyes, lack of sleep, regretting dozing in that armchair, nightmares. You've lost weight, been skipping meals – ironic as that was your pet peeve with me. Easily rectified. Angelo's?"

John grinned as he grabbed his coat. "Oh god, yes."

Together they left the flat, John's cane still resting against the armchair, forgotten.

Sherlock was alive and now so was John.

The End.


End file.
